CHAPTER Eighteen
“Ready?” Nixon held out his hand. After much coaxing, Monroe had convinced me to wear a short black dress with nylons and the boots from Chase. I added a short jean jacket and wore my necklace. I mean, I was with Nixon — nothing would happen to it.
I’d like to see someone try to mug me with him around.
“Yup.” I took his hand.
And so the date with the devil began.
“Still hate me?” he asked once we were in the Range Rover.
“Still not telling me who you are?” I replied.
“And off we go!” He laughed and started the car. “So, you may have noticed we don’t have security tonight.”
Telling myself to stop sweating so profusely, I nodded and tilted my head toward him. “Why?”
“Other than the fact I’m packing?” He lifted his eyebrows at me and let out a bark of laughter.
All signs pointed to him not kidding.
“Chill.” The car turned right as we left the security gate of the campus. “It was a joke.”
“So you aren’t packing?” I gulped.
“Not technically.”
“Right.” I turned the air on in the car and closed my eyes. “So where are we going? I’m guessing it’s safe since we’re not having to worry about security?”
“Absolutely.”
“Cool.”
“Want to know where?” Geez, he was grinning like a little kid.
“You want to tell me, don’t you?”
“So bad.” He leaned over the steering wheel and laughed. I’d never seen him so animated or excited.
“Surprise me.”
“I get too excited when it comes to surprises,” he grumbled. “Okay, I’m going to try, but you can’t talk to me, or else I’m going to blurt everything and ruin it, okay?”
“Not talk to you? Whatever will I do?”
His smile turned wicked. “I’ve got a few ideas of other things you could do with your mouth—”
“And I’m pretty sure if I searched hard enough I could find a gun and shoot off your manparts, so, say that again, I dare you.”
He gulped. “Silence it is.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Damn.” He shook his head. “Well played.”
“I know.” I smirked and leaned against the window, trying not to be too obvious about the fact that I was watching every single move he made.
Seriously, the guy made driving sexy. In that moment, watching him lick his lips and every once in a while suck on his lip ring, I realized, if he was in Hollywood, he’d be a hit. He’d make millions and women would cry in his presence.
If he was in corporate America, he’d be the hot CEO that secretaries would stab each other to work for.
No matter what Nixon decided to do, he’d be successful, and it wasn’t just his good looks, though they helped. It was the confidence behind his good looks. I mean, I knew I wasn’t supermodel gorgeous, yet being with him didn’t make me feel as insecure as it should. Instead, it made me feel like I could do anything.
If he told me I could be a rock star, I might just believe him.
It was scary when someone’s presence had that much power to alter the way you felt about yourself, because what happens when you lose yourself in that person? Do you disappear, or do you just mold into what they view you as?
Too many deep thoughts for a first date.
“Almost there.” Nixon reached over and touched my thigh. His hand stayed there, warming my skin until his touch was almost searing.
Holy Superman, his touch even had magical powers.
“Okay.” Nixon pulled down a dirt road. “Close your eyes.”
I did as he said, totally noticing before I closed them that we were nowhere near the city. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No.” He laughed.
I relaxed, until he added. “I didn’t bring my silencer.”
Stiffening under his touch I tried to jerk away from him. His laughter made me want to give him a black eye.
“Trace, calm down. This is supposed to be fun, remember?”
“Yeah,” I said breathlessly.
The car turned off. Cold air hit me as the door opened and then shut again. Seconds later, my door was opened, my seatbelt unbuckled, and Nixon was picking me up in his arms.
I leaned against his firm chest and told myself to stop sighing like the hormonal teenager I was. I could have sworn my estrogen spiked just being around the guy, as if my feminine body was begging me to do more than touch him.
Clearing my throat, I licked my lips and waited.
Finally, he set me on my feet. “Open your eyes.”
I did.
And almost collapsed into blackness. Not, because he hit me on the head, or because what he did was so incredible, but because it was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for me, and it was the devil giving me the one thing I missed more than Grandpa.
Home.
“Are those—” I told myself to swallow back the tears.
“Cows.” Nixon laughed. “Yes, real live cows. I hear they even moo from time to time.”
“And this…” He pointed behind us. “Is our picnic under the stars.”
“With the cows,” I added, still stunned.
“With the cows. Though I’ve heard a few goats live out here too. Don’t want to leave out any farm creatures and take a chance on offending them.”
“Right.” My lower lip trembled. Crap. I was going to cry.
Nixon didn’t say anything. He simply pulled me into his arms and kissed my head. “I know you miss it. I know you miss your grandpa.” He sighed and ran his hand across my chest where my cross necklace lay. “And I know you miss your grandma. But being at Elite, it’s where you belong. As much as you miss all of this.” He pointed at the pasture. “You’re home. Right here.” In my arms is what was implied, and I still couldn’t figure out why I believed him. I mean, I’d only known him for two weeks. So why did it feel like I’d known him all my life?
“Hungry?” Nixon released me and walked over to the basket.
“Starved.” I went over to help him, but he shook his head. “Nope, you sit right here.” He clicked a button on his keys that opened the trunk of the car and then picked me up and sat me on the edge of the Range Rover. “There now. Stay put while I get this all ready.”
Getting it all ready involved him laying down at least four layers of blankets — apparently it rained last night — and setting out different containers filled with lasagna and spaghetti.
After the food was laid out, he lit a cylinder candle and held out his hand. “Your dinner awaits.”
I jumped off the back of the car and took his hand. “Thank you.”
We sat in silence on the blanket while he poured me what I assumed was sparkling wine and put food on my plate.
I liked that he expected me to eat a lot. Maybe it was because he was Italian, or his last name said as much. Must be like our family, where not eating is a cardinal sin.
You feel sick? Eat.
You feel tired? Eat.
You feel happy? Eat.
The food looked delicious. I tried the lasagna first and moaned aloud, totally by accident, I might add.
“Shit.” Nixon dropped his fork and splattered lasagna onto the blankets. “Sorry, it’s just…” He looked away from me and gulped his wine. “Ah, slippery fork and all.”
“Right, because of the rain.” I rolled my eyes and took a bite of spaghetti. This time my moan was totally on purpose. Talk about foodgasm. Every flavor was perfect.
Nixon began choking.
“Are you okay?” I leaned over and hit his back.
He nodded and stole my wine, drinking half of it. “Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “I just… was… choking.”
“Right.” I offered him my most disbelieving look.
Was he blushing?
Impossible.
“Who made the food?” I mentally patted myself on the back for my smooth subject change.
“I did.”
Laughing, I pushed him with my free hand while I took another bite and chewed. This time, I did not moan. I mean, I didn’t want the guy to die or anything.
“You don’t believe me?” His eyes widened a bit, then narrowed. “You think I’d lie about something as important as food?”
I put my hands up in the air in mock surrender. “Sorry, Nixon. Yes, I believe you, and if you ever get tired of running around in your little gang, you could become a world renowned chef.”
“My little gang,” he repeated. “You sound like Ma.”
“How?”
“She used to call us guys her little gang.” He pushed some food around with his fork. “Not so much anymore.”
Clearly he was uncomfortable. Another subject change already? “Did she teach you how to cook?”
“Oh yeah, my father hated it.” Nixon’s eyes softened as he leaned over and licked his lips. “I spent all my early years in the kitchen holding onto my mom’s skirts and testing all her food. She cooked a lot.”
A fuzzy memory ran through my head of a tiny little boy screaming at me in the kitchen because I got dough in his hair. I laughed. I’d forgotten all about it!
“What?” Nixon urged.
“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Or, well. It’s just, I don’t remember much from when I was little. Grandpa said everything was too traumatizing with my parents dying and all, but I remember being in a kitchen with this little boy and getting in a food fight.”
He chuckled. “What happened?”
“I think he got mad because the cook let me have a taste of the cookie dough first. Anyways, all I remember is that he threw dough at me, and I threw it back at him. We fought, and I think he tripped and hit the side of his head on the counter. I’m sure it left a scar.”
“Wow, you were a terrible child.” Nixon nodded his head. “I’m impressed.”
I hadn’t realized that he had scooted closer to me.
Slowly, I reached over and grabbed his hand.
“Do you remember anything else about your parents?” he asked softly. “Or would you rather not talk about it?”
“I don’t really know how I feel about it.” I shrugged as a breeze picked up, making me scoot closer to him. “I mean, the memories are so scattered.”
“Like a movie you can’t remember?” he asked.
“Something like that. I see pieces…”
“Tell me one…” He kissed my cheek. “If you don’t mind.”
“Alright, um… I remember things being really loud when I was little. We always had people over, lots and lots of people. I remember the dough thing… and a really pretty woman.”
Nixon’s head perked up. “I like pretty women.”
“Very funny.” I squeezed his hand. “I don’t know why I always remember her. I know it wasn’t my mom because I’ve seen pictures and remember her face a bit.”
“What did this pretty woman look like, hmm?” Nixon released my hand and began massaging my neck.
I focused on the memory, begging for it to be more clear, but all I could remember were her eyes. “She… she had really blue eyes. Like yours.”
He stopped massaging.
“And she had a really pretty laugh, it sounded like…”
“Church bells,” Nixon finished.
I jerked away. “What?”
He very sadly dropped his head. “I read minds. Why what were you going to say?”
I didn’t want to tell him that he was spot on. But only because I remember actual church bells close by. Another one of my flickering memories. I bit down on my lip. I knew it was a lucky guess.
“Dance with me.” Nixon stood and held out his hand.
“In front of the cows?” My voice squeaked.
“Uh, yeah.” Nixon looked from the cows to me. “I don’t think they’ll mind. Why, what kind of dancing were you thinking of doing? Were you hoping to embarrass the cows and get them to moo?”
Narrowing my eyes, I swatted him with my hand.
“Come on.” My body was flush against his before I could protest.